“Yes.”

“You think we need to go back that far?”

“The story may have ended up here—but it started in that house.”

“What do you make of the Moores sneaking back home with Patrick?”

“Nothing good,” Win said.

“It could be that he’s just too traumatized to talk.”

“Could be.”

“What else could it be really?”

“What you said before,” Win said.

“What’s that?”

“We’re missing something.”

Then the police flashed up a photograph of Fat Gandhi, giving his name as Chris Alan Weeks, and saying he wasn’t a suspect but a person of interest. The man in the photograph had hair and looked fifty pounds thinner than the man Myron had encountered.

“Do we want the police to find him,” Win asked, “or me?”

“Does it matter?”

Win looked at him. “How will it go if the police capture him?”

“If he’s with Rhys, well, then we are done. Case solved.”

“Unlikely that will happen,” Win said. “He’s a cautious man. He’ll either kill Rhys—which there is no point in entertaining since it will lead us nowhere—or your rotund friend will store him someplace safe, someplace with no connection to him.”

“Okay.”

“So I ask again: How will it go if the police capture him?”

“First, they bring him in.”

“Right.”

Myron saw where Win was headed. “He lawyers up. They have nothing on him. He kept everything in some locked cloud. The kids won’t testify against him. He was careful. They’ll have my testimony about the stabbing, but they’ll say it was dark and there is no way I could have seen him do it for certain, which is true.”

Win nodded. “Do you think he’ll talk?”

“To quote you, ‘Unlikely that will happen.’”

“Yet if I find him . . . ,” Win said.

Myron turned back to the press conference.

“You don’t approve,” Win said.

“You know I don’t.”

“Yet you know what I am and what I do.”

“Which might have been, I don’t know, okay in the past. In certain circumstances.”

“But not in this brave new world of ours?”

“Are you really in favor of the government torturing people for information?”

“Good God, no,” Win said.

“Just you personally?”

“Yes, exactly. I trust my judgment and motives. I don’t trust the government’s.”

“Different rules for you?”

“Yes, of course.” Win tilted his head. “Is this confusing to you?”

Myron shook his head. “One other thing.”

“What’s that?”

“You’ve been away for a long time.”

Win did not reply.

“If I head back,” Myron said, “I don’t want to lose you again.”

“You heard what Brooke said.”

“I did.”

“I messed up. Whatever the price, I have to find her son.”

* * *

An hour later, just as they were boarding Win’s plane, Brooke got a text. She read it and stopped. Myron and Chick stopped a step later.

“What is it?” Chick said.

“It’s from Nancy.”

She handed Chick the phone. He read it out loud: “I’m doing what’s best for my son. And yours. Trust me. Will be in touch soon.” Chick still had the scowl going. “What the hell does that mean?”